The Callender Papers (6 page)

As soon as we were alone in the dining room, with full plates before us, I made my speech. “Mr. Thiel, I apologize for my rudeness. What I said was inexcusable. I should not have said it, and I am sorry for doing so.” That done, I began to eat.

You can imagine my surprise when I heard him
start to laugh. He did not laugh loud or long, but the short barks of sound were clearly laughter.

“Accepted,” he said, and just as I recognized that his smile occupied his face fully, it disappeared. He resumed his natural expression. “Probably, you would say I owe you an apology myself.”

“Accepted,” I said.

“Now, tell me something. You spoke rudely, yes, but did you speak untruthfully?”

He might have been teasing me. I tried to study his face. The face was severe and craggy, his dark glance sharp under forbidding eyebrows.

“Untruthfully? I cannot say that, because I really don't know, do I? You do live a very solitary life. I spoke as I thought, as things appear to me.”

That satisfied him. “Mac runs wild here. If you would rather not share his company, I will tell him so.”

“Oh no,” I said quickly. “I've never known a boy.”

“One of your Aunt Constance's prejudices?” he asked.

“I don't think so. We just have no opportunity to meet boys. Mac appears knowledgeable—about certain things.”

“A wild Indian's knowledge,” Mr. Thiel remarked.

“All knowledge is useful, don't you think?” I said.

“No, I don't.” His effort to cut off conversation did not stop my tongue.

“You cannot understand what you do not know,” I pointed out to him. “And if you cannot understand it, how can you make changes for the better?”

“You're a reformer,” he said. Obviously, he did not care for reformers.

“I would like to be useful in the world,” I answered. That was true. But there was something more I wanted, that I could not define. “There is something very wrong in Mrs. Bywall's life. It should not have happened that way,” I finished lamely.

“Should,” he repeated, as if that were a particularly silly word.

“I can't explain,” I said. “But you seem to have felt it too. Why else is she here?”

“Because she does her job well,” he said. “Because, as you pointed out earlier this afternoon, she would take the job, which no other person in the village would have done.”

“Mr. Thiel,” I said, feeling very clever, “you do not like to be accused of doing a good deed.”

“Not if I don't deserve it,” he answered.

That evening I wrote to Aunt Constance, describing Marlborough and Mr. Thiel's home and reporting
to her about my progress with the Callender papers. I described how I had gone about it, and how I planned to distinguish categories; then I asked for her response and her suggestions. I told her how I spent the days and tried to explain my feeling for the glade by the waterfall. It was a long letter. I was reluctant to end it because while I was writing I had the feeling that Aunt Constance was nearby.

The next afternoon I set off on my own to take the letter to the post office. I deliberately avoided telling Mr. Thiel of my intention, although I don't know why. I did, however, inform Mrs. Bywall. Someone should know. Besides, I thought she would notice if I was not there.

“Are you sure you can manage it, the walk?” she asked. We were washing up the luncheon dishes. Then she answered herself. “Of course you can. You're as I used to be, thin but strong. In prison, we did laundry and more laundry, and what with that and the diet—if you could call it that. . . . But I used to be slender and wiry, like you. Have you money for the stamp?”

“Yes, I still have my traveling money,” I said. I dried my hands and prepared to leave.

“Miss Jean,” Mrs. Bywall said, wiping her own hands on her apron. Then she left the room abruptly.
I waited, I did not know why or what for. No change of expression on her impassive face had prepared me for her departure.

Mrs. Bywall returned carrying a simple gingham dress. She stood awkwardly before me.

“Is that for me?” I asked.

“If you want it,” she said. “Not to say there's anything wrong with what you have.”

“Thank you,” I said. I didn't know if I should reach out to take it or wait to have it given to me.

“I had this bit of material, and if you wanted something cooler, I thought, we're not very fancy around here. . . .” She stopped speaking.

“I could wear it today,” I offered.

“Suit yourself,” she answered. It was the oddest kindness I had ever been offered, and I was not sure how to respond, so I simply thanked her again.

The dress fit well enough. It was made to fall loosely, like a smock, and shorter than any of my other dresses. The hem fell just above my ankle. Wearing it, I felt free to move about. I stopped to show Mrs. Bywall.

“It's what the girls around here wear,” she said. “Of course, it wouldn't do for the city. The girls here often go without stockings and shoes too, for comfort.”

“I'll be a wild Indian, like Oliver McWilliams.” I essayed a smile, to which she did not respond. I had the ungrateful thought that Mr. Thiel had required her to make the dress, for reasons of his own.

“You might do worse,” Mrs. Bywall said finally, dismissing me.

With the letter and a few pennies in my pinafore pocket, with a new dress and bare feet, I walked along the dirt roadway beside the stream. There was nobody on the lawn of the Callender house. The dirt under my feet felt soft and fine, the stones cut into my tender soles until I learned to avoid them. The short skirt was light around my legs. I did feel half-wild. Sometimes, for no reason, I ran through the dappled sunlight, just for the pleasure of moving my arms and legs so freely. When I arrived at the village, I looked around for Mac but did not see him. I turned toward the brick buildings.

The general store, where mail was collected, was easy to find as Marlborough had only the one street. The store had a sign, which announced itself, and added that E. Willy was the proprietor. I hesitated, wondering about my bare feet, then decided that if it were improper, Mrs. Bywall would not have advised me to go without shoes. I stepped into the building.

It was cool, dim. Shelves filled with dry goods and hardware filled the walls toward the front. The groceries were toward the back, canned goods and bags of rice, flour, coffee. The Franklin stove was not lit at this time of year, but it occupied a central place. Bottles of whiskey stood in a line directly behind a stocky man who was himself behind a counter. The usual jars of bright-colored penny candy were on one end of the counter.

I walked up to the man and said that I would like to mail a letter.

He answered not a word, but reached down a small scale from behind him. I gave him my letter.

“To Boston,” he said. “To Miss Constance Wainwright,” he said.

“How much is it please?”

He told me the price and I paid him. “You'll be staying up at Mr. Thiel's,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Then we'll not see you often,” he said.

I said nothing, and he stared at me with bright, curious eyes. His hair was almost perfectly white, his face almost perfectly square. His skin was covered with small wrinkles. I did not like him. “You don't look like you come from the Callender property,” he remarked at last.
“But looks can be deceiving.” He waited for me to say something, but I didn't. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “Good day.”

He did not answer, and I went back outside. I stood on the porch for a time, letting my eyes readjust to the sunlight, studying the white houses on the other side of the dirt road. Then I stepped down onto the dusty street and saw Mac approaching the other side of the bridge. I walked toward him, waving to catch his attention, when someone hurrying out of the other building ran into me from the side.

A pair of hands took me by the shoulders to keep me from falling into the dusty road. Before I could properly appreciate what had happened, a voice began apologizing: “How could I have been so clumsy? I'm so sorry—are you all right? Yes, I think so, perhaps a little bemused, but you don't look as if you're hurt.
Are
you hurt? Is that a pained or a puzzled expression? I do apologize. Please say you'll forgive me. It was clumsy of me, I wasn't watching, and the sunlight after the dark interior light is blinding, don't you think? I've always thought so. I wish you'd talk to me, just anything, so I can hear if I've hurt you. But I'm not giving you much of a chance, am I?”

It was Enoch Callender who stood beside me,
concern in eyes, which were of blue as bright as the sky. The sun shone off of his golden hair. His face looked contrite and amused and curious, all at once; the exact expressions changing so fast I couldn't see when they flowed into one another. He wore a white suit, spotless. “I'm perfectly fine,” I assured him. “Really.” I felt myself flushing under his scrutiny. “It's unmannerly to stare,” I told him, as if he had been one of the little girls in my charge. Then I regretted my own ill-mannered tongue. But he smiled mischievously at me.

“I'm not usually clumsy. And I'm not in the habit of trampling down young ladies on public thoroughfares. Say you will forgive me.” He smiled as if he were sure I would.

“There is nothing to forgive,” I said. “Truly.”

“I'm relieved to hear you say that.” He took off his straw hat and bowed elaborately to me. “Let me introduce myself less precipitously. Enoch Callender, at your service.”

“I know.”

He smiled again. He seemed to know immediately that I did not mean my words to sound as curt as they did. “Know what? Know I am at your service?” I answered with a smile. “Or why need we two lie to
one another, is that what you mean? You're an unusually direct sort of young lady and I tell you straight out I like that. Of course, I do know who you are. We all heard, as soon as you'd arrived. You're staying at Dan's house, Dan Thiel. They say you are cataloging the family papers. My family, of course. Are they dreadfully dull? I'm afraid they must be. I shall have to apologize for that too. My father was a dreadfully dull old man, if I do say so myself. All those fusty hours turning over the yellowed pages—no, I don't envy you the job. A double apology then, Miss—no wait, you mustn't tell me, and I see in your face that you are not hastening to do so—are you also discreet? Truly, a rare character, truly good luck that I—so to speak”—he smiled broadly, doffing his hat again—“ran into you. Ah, good, you have a sense of humor. I wonder if you'll allow me to play a little game I like. It's so important to have diversions for the mind.”

I didn't know what to say, so stood looking up into his face.

“Are you returning to the big house? Shall we walk together? I'm incredibly trustworthy, you will be safe with me.”

“Don't we go up on opposite sides of the river?” I asked.

“There is a way across. It's something of a secret, but I'll share it with you. It's not a large secret—I can see you would disapprove of my telling you large secrets on such a short acquaintance. It's a modest little private arrangement, really. You'll be disappointed by it, but I'll tell you anyway now that I've piqued your curiosity.” I had no time to open my mouth to say that I wasn't at all curious; he talked on without waiting. “We can cross over at the falls. You didn't know that, did you? I'll like surprising you, I can see that. You will have to walk a little further, but I would enjoy the time in your company. I would enjoy it very much.”

He too would have to walk farther, which I did not say. Instead, I agreed that we might walk together. I didn't see how I could refuse, and I preferred walking side by side to standing facing him in the middle of the street. Somehow, looking directly at him distracted me—his face held such liveliness and he spoke so fluently. This liveliness, the quick energy of him, was something I had never met with before in an adult. Already, I had a sense of unpredictability, as if all of life was a game, which he very much enjoyed playing. We moved up the road and over the little bridge. Mac had begun to fish and did not meet my
eye. Mr. Callender talked on. “I was speaking of my little game. I'm really rather good at it. You may think I'm blowing my own horn, but I always say if you don't think well of yourself, then who will? And we see so few strangers—strangers are a rare commodity in Marlborough—that I always ask the privilege of those I meet. So I ask the privilege of you, my nameless young lady.”

“Yes, but what is it?”

“You have humor as well; really, I can't tell you how glad I am we met. However inopportunely it came about—I am not forgetting my part in all of this. But to the point. I have a theory that it is possible to tell a person's name from his appearance. The person must be of mature age, that goes without saying. But I believe that in that circumstance the astute observer can guess the name. So I'll guess at your name—unless you object?”

I shook my head, greatly amused. I could think of no reason to object to his foolishness, and I was curious about what he would guess.

“This name must be pretty, but not fancified. Something solid. Something with a streak of the practical, but a hint of vision as well. Simple and feminine, but with the possibility of—if I'm right—sternness.”

Nobody had ever said all those things about me. I had not forgotten Mr. Thiel calling me an “odd little niece.” It was pleasant now to be so approved of. I waited for the game to continue. We were on a wagon track on the opposite side of the river, and the trees grew so thickly that I would not have guessed, if I hadn't known, that there was a drive on the opposite side. Thickly leaved branches made it shady and pleasant as we walked along. “I think,” he said after some silent thought, “if I were to name you, I'd call you Diana, after the goddess of the moon.”